


Thanks

by discountsatanism



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-07 00:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14068437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discountsatanism/pseuds/discountsatanism
Summary: Gandy Dancer and Mr. Parsons aren’t much easier to find than a needle in the desert, and Mr. Ryehouse decided he was worth saving before he did and before either of them knew who deserved to die in his place. Besides that, he’d had a month to lie in bed, and about a week in he started needing a more engaging hobby than grieving.





	Thanks

**Author's Note:**

> nobody in this fandom is willing to write fic apparently so i had to take the law into my own hands

Carrion Street is light with the same painful sunlight as everywhere else in the world, but Dylan can still make out Errol Ryehouse standing next to the bell. He’s gesturing wildly, more frantically than the old woman next to him.

“-t was a _mistake_ ,” Errol says as Dylan gets within earshot. “‘Sides, they had guns!”

The woman crosses her arms. “You _sure_ , Errol?”

He gestures awkwardly. “Situationally! It would! Uh! It woulda made sense! It was not _unreasonable_ to assume!”

She shakes her head, putting her hands on her hips. “‘Cause it _seems_ like you was just overreactin’, and, in that case, I don’t see why the bell is suddenly an emergency-only thing again! I had more cause for alarm than you, even!”

Errol groans. “Ma’am, I’ve been _tellin’_ you. They introduced themselves as subordinates of the most notorious crime boss in town! Far as I know, your boy insulting your cooking isn’t potentially life-threatnin’!”

Dylan watches the rest of the exchange through squinted eyes and on shaky legs, swaying back and forth gently as the two argue.

The reason he came here is still in his pocket- Gandy Dancer and Mr. Parsons aren’t much easier to find than a needle in the desert, and Mr. Ryehouse decided he was worth saving before he did and before either of them knew who deserved to die in his place. Besides that, he’d had a month to lie in bed, and about a week in he started needing a more engaging hobby than grieving.

He stumbles over with acceptable balance and gets far enough that the two turn to look at them before tripping over a dip in the road and hitting Errol square in the chest.

“Jesus! Ow,” Errol yelps, catching Dylan as he takes a step back to balance himself. “Uh. Hi, Dylan.”

“Who’s that?” the old woman asks as Errol helps Dylan regain his balance. “This a bell-ringin’ off-”

“Ma’am, _please._ ”

Errol’s hand is still on Dylan’s shoulder, steadying him, and Dylan decides to leave it there. “Mr. Ryehouse,” he says. “Hello.”

“Uh, yeah,” Errol replies. “Thanks for visitin’, but if I’m allowed to ask, why’re you here?”

Dylan reaches for his jacket pocket, digging the brown paper package out and holding it out with some dignity. “As. As thanks, for helpin’ me. ‘Specially when I didn’t want to be helped.”

Errol’s eyes light up, and then abruptly water. “Uh, wow, geez, um, _thanks_ ,” he says, gently taking the package. “You really didn’t have to, wow this is nice, _damn._ ”

The old woman coughs, making them both turn. “I’ll be goin’ then, I guess. Throw a gun at that there bell if you need me, I su-“

“ _Ma’am._ ”

“Whatever,” she says, walking off.

Dylan looks back at Errol. “Is that. . .a joke I’m not-“

Errol waves with the hand holding the package. “I did a mistake, it’s fine,” he says. “Just a bit’a friendly teasin’ from the good people’a Carrion Street.”

“Did you shoot the bell on accident?”

He grimaces. “Nope. I chucked my pistol at it when I was bein’ accosted by two thugs, ‘cept it turned out suspectin’ people of maybe having guns when they haven’t actually shot ‘em yet is a capital offense punishable by seven years a’ raggin’.”

Dylan looks at him blankly before starting to laugh. Errol joins in after a bit, and they only stop when Dylan trips again.

Errol drops the package and lunges to catch him, looking at him worriedly. “Hey, Dylan, you need to sit down?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

“Here, sit,” Errol says, motioning to a nearby porch. “This isn’t my house, but Derek ain’t no snitch,” he says, picking up the package and leading him over.

“Sorry for the trouble,” Dylan says. “I was fine on the way here, I swear.”

He _wasn’t_ , but one skinned knee and a few bruises weren’t going to kill him, and neither would inhaling an above-average amount of dust, long as it wasn’t silver.

“You gotta take care a’ yourself, Dylan,” Errol says. “Even if it’s just across town, silver poisoning’s no joke, and you got it where it _hurts._ ”

Dylan, somewhat petulantly, responds “You got shot in the chest and you’re still out and about.”

Errol looks sideways. “Not. Exactly,” he says. “Dylan, I’m not exactly the poster boy for intelligence regardin’ these kinds’a things.” He pokes Dylan lightly in the shoulder. “So, why in god’s name would you go to all this trouble to hand me a package? Why not get root beer?”

He just shrugs. “Open it.”

Errol does, swearing softly as he struggles with the paper before picking up what’s inside.

It’s a clothespin doll- not a very skillfully made one, with a lopsided fabric cowboy hat and messy threads for fur, wearing a cotton rendering of Errol’s outfit, cool jacket and all.

“I made it when I was still bed-ridden,” Dylan explains. “By the end of the first week I was so bored I couldn’t think, so Mom brought me some clothespins and fabric. Said it worked to keep me busy when I was a kid, and, well, I figured a thank you was in order after everything you did for me.”

He looks nervously at Errol, waiting for him to look up. When he finally does, he’s crying.

“You up for a hug?” he asks hoarsely.

Dylan considers it for a second. He nods.

Errol hugs exactly like he expected- warm, strong enough to be just on the edge of uncomfortably tight, and _nice._ Dylan doesn’t hug back; doesn’t appear he’s expected to, and Errol eventually pulls away and grins. “You’re a good kid, Dylan.”

-

Errol whirls into the Full Moon Saloon two weeks later, landing at the bar next to Dylan. “Got somethin’ for ya!” he says, waving a brown package of his own over his head before holding it in front of him.

Dylan takes it gingerly, unwrapping it to reveal a clothespin doll of significantly neater make than his. The clothes aren’t like any he owns, in particular the brightly colored jacket that looks hand-embroidered, but its hair is in a braid just like his and it has two bright yellow eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Ryehouse,” he says, quietly.

“No problemo, kid,” Errol says. “But I do have. . .one question for ya.”

“What?” Dylan asks.

“Is there some kinda trick to ordering root beer here? ‘Cause I can’t seem to get the hang of it.”


End file.
